This is one of my very favorite blogs - "Glow in the Woods." Full of amazing posts that describe life after the loss of a child so accurately, it seems as if the writer is reading my mind.
A recent topic "The Land on Which I Stand" really resonated for me. I feel like I'm a broken person, a ticking time bomb, and if people could really see what's going on inside of me, they would be horrified.
The questions asked are as follows:
Can you describe an instant of recognition or insight that surprised you or caught you off-guard?
I can recall several of these instants. One that is very painful is the moment I learned there was no heartbeat, Kara had died. I was in the examination room for a routine ultrasound and my OB happily chatted about how big I was measuring, answering questions about the scheduled c-section in 12 days time. I recall the fetal doppler being moved around and around my belly, but it didn't register 'why', until the doctor got quiet. Instantly I felt cold and everything went into slow motion. "B, there is no heartbeat. I'm so sorry." At first it didn't register - it was as if someone pushed the 'pause' button. I gaped at her. Then it dawned on me - as she showed me the ultrasound with my baby perfectly still in the fetal position. There was no heartbeat, there was no movement at all. I lost my voice. I was whispering over and over "That's it? That's the end?" I could not find my voice - it was like forcing air through my vocal cords, but no sound was coming out. Then the wailing began. An uncontrollable, primal sound that I have never heard before. I held my belly and howled, over and over again. The Doctor called my husband who was traveling on business - I couldn't even speak. She explained that Kara had died 'in utero' for no apparent reason. The conversation went on without my even hearing what was being said. My mother was called to take me to the hospital to prep me for labor. I was in hysterics for some time as I waited the hour for my mother to drive up to get me.
How many lives do you lead? Two. One is my business life - I put on the business persona and do my job. I have bad days, but I can hide at home on my worst days and no one knows the difference. The other is my real life - I am the bereaved, broken mother of one child who lives in Heaven. I am that woman - the one who experienced stillbirth after a nearly perfect pregnancy. I can't fake it, can't see through the shitty present to the hopeful future. My outlook is bleak.
Do you ever feel okay? Yes. There are days when I feel okay and I have to embrace and enjoy them as much as possible because they are fleeting. There are those days where I feel a gleam of optimism for a short moment, and I think that there might be hope for me.
And are you okay with feeling a little okay, sometimes? I am okay with it. I am.
What about you?
6 comments:
the way you write really help me understand what you're going through. I think you are tremendously brave and honest.
I am glad there are days or moments that you are feel ok.
thinking of you
E
I hate that I found Glow in the Woods. I have glimpses of okay-ness but then I remember the bomb that went off inside me.
Picking myself up after the blast...
Thank you for sharing this post, and for your comment on my blog. Kara is beautiful. Sending her and you lots of love and light.
Love,
Maddy
Thank you for sharing A glow in the Woods. Finally, words for what my insides have been screaming but could not say to anyone.
thanks for this post. i went over and read chris's post and left a comment over there.
and yes, sometimes it's good to feel ok. sometimes i'm just so sick of being sad. but it's all mixed up in one package. maybe the sadness comes less often and less intense now but it is there and it always will be.
xoxo
I find myself either resisting feeling OK, or feeling guilt for wanting to feel OK, or guilt for actually feeling OK. I think I'm afraid that if I appear OK, nobody will remember E. Or I fear that feeling any better than melancholy will result in a huge plummeting depression. It's as if I'm looking for an impossible neutrality to both protect myself and to protect E's memory.
Thank you for your support on my blog. Our discoveries of our daughters' are absolutely similar and I wish we could simply hold them.
Peace, my friend.
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